


Going Somewhere, With Reluctance

by gutterandthestars



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Everyone Else Is Less Repressed Than John, Intrigue, Inventive Shopkeepers, John Is A Huge Prude, M/M, Other Chapters Too, Other Characters To Follow - Freeform, Plot Will Occur, Porn May Occur, Sex Toys, Solar Panels
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:49:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22961221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gutterandthestars/pseuds/gutterandthestars
Summary: The team are back in Pegasus after being stuck outside San Francisco for six months and Woolsey's told them to get back in the field, make friends, find a regular supply of food, the usual. Teyla's happy, Ronon's Ronon, Rodney's preoccupied (and John's preoccupied with Rodney). So same old, same old. Except John knew that taking advice from Larrin was a bad idea...Here's another fine mess she's got him into.
Relationships: Rodney McKay/John Sheppard
Comments: 12
Kudos: 17





	Going Somewhere, With Reluctance

This, John swears to himself, is the last time they take Larrin up on the offer of free information. 

_Traders with links to a planet with electronic technology_ , she’d said. _Possible allies against the Wraith_ , she’d said. _This guy can hook you up_ , she’d said. And shouldn’t _that_ have been suspicious right from the off. _Strategically advantageous on both sides,_ yeah right. He _thought_ she’d been laughing at him throughout the whole transmission, and he’d just put it down to her perfectly normal-for-her, all-situations-inclusive regular laughing at him. But no. She had something particular in mind.

So here he is, in a little town on P2X-333, Ronon in tow, and it’s not till the wooden door of the little shop is swinging closed behind him that he clocks the nature of the wares mounted (oh god) on the walls and he’s so going to kill her. 

John can feel his smile stiffen around the edges. Beside him, Ronon snorts.

Larrin’s found a new way to screw with him in lieu of the completely-not-ever-going-to-happen-except-in-John’s-occasional-fantasies way. Apparently the idea of John surrounded by displays of sex toys amuses her. Wherever she is, he hopes she enjoyed her little fantasy. He’s in hell.

Like he says. Never again.

===

Pegasus feels like home again after their six month sojourn in San Francisco Bay which had felt interminable, but at least in San Francisco he hadn’t accidentally wandered into any kind of adult store with half his team, despite plenty of opportunity afforded by the location. 

Statistically speaking, this afternoon is just unfortunate for him. 

_Suck it up, John, and think of Atlantis,_ he tells himself. They’re actually pretty desperate for information; there’s a need to ingratiate themselves with the inhabitants of Pegasus after their unplanned retreat to the Milky Way. And they left under threats of budget cuts, so they’ve got to be less reliant on military supplies than they used to. He doesn’t think they’ll be cut off or anything, but John’s making contingency plans because he will be cold and dead before they get him to leave Pegasus again for any extended period of time. And how about that, huh? He’ll take the Wraith over Earth apparently. 

So, yeah. Hungry for good-will and also for food, they’re back: seeking out new life and new civilisations. Boldly going etc etc. Here he is. Intergalactic shopping.

This planet’s your basic pre-industrial economy, trading home-grown and imported goods. Teyla once knew it well, but hasn’t visited since she joined forces with Team Sheppard. She’d considered Larrin’s offer with the suspicion it deserved, and then declared that she could use the opportunity to reconnect with old contacts, which John had interpreted as ‘shop on the Air Force’s dime’.

Rodney had waved away the lead as likely boring and so he and Teyla are off somewhere else in the market, keeping an eye out for random Ancient tech (you never know) and buying shoes for Torren who is walking now and wearing them out all over Atlantis. Meanwhile, John and Ronon are in a queue. 

In a shop full of sex toys. 

John’s mind does just keep coming back to that.

Mercifully, it’s a short queue. The only other people in the little shop are a single customer (male, chatty, not even a little embarrassed) and the man at the counter concluding the customer’s purchase which appears to consist of a number of elongate packages and some plain cloth bags which rattle a little when they’re shifted around on the worksurface. Buying in bulk.

The little shop smells of standard Pegasus Market - leather, grease, slightly odd odours of cooking. The shop’s cool, out of the sun and behind closed doors, which John had thought was unusual for a market stall economy but, well. Larrin had said ‘advanced technology’ and that’d meant weapons to John and so it seemed only sensible not to leave weapons just lying around in the open, but no, the electronic goods in question are… not weapons. At least not in any non-metaphorical sense of the word. This still explains the shuttered store front windows though. John watches dust motes sparkle and tumble by, caught in broad fingers of afternoon sunshine angled through the slats. He can feel Ronon smirking next to him and he is absolutely not going to make eye contact.

Ronon seems as relaxed about this as he is damn near everything else except the Wraith. Sateda had been an advanced technological society, he’s reminded and so maybe this is something he’s… no no no, stop thinking, stop thinking now.

Yep. Larrin. Unlikely to be boring in bed, evidence suggests. Unquestionably hot. _So_ more trouble than it’s worth. Even in his head. He’s going back to his standard furtive, slightly guilty, Rodney fantasies from now on and oh, wait, no this is the worst ever place to start down that avenue of thought. 

So many, many possible avenues of thought.

He pinches the bridge of his nose, drafts sternly worded notices of reprimand to his brain and his dick, and wishes the customer in front would just hurry up.

===

Finally, the guy ahead of them leaves and John gives the introductions, best smile on his face. Turns out Sex Toy Shop Guy, whose name is Gwillum, is quite the techno-nerd. He shows no interest whatsoever in wanting to return to his kinda stuffy home planet and apparently does a roaring trade in what he calls _dildonics_. Pre-industrial corners of Pegasus are quite the market for his self-charging objects. He seems pretty well disposed to the Travellers, who apparently gave him his first chance at escape into the wider galaxy, and recalls Larrin with fondness. 

He’s a little bitchy maybe, rolling brown eyes lined with smoky eyeliner in a pale face. He’s a young guy with a shaved head and a prominent adam’s apple, camp as Christmas, with eyebrows that remind John of that guy they’ve cast in the new Star Trek film that’s coming out soon (he and Rodney have been bitching about that on and off), ready enough to talk to his new Lantean acquaintances. 

“Solar charge, look you,” he says, demonstrating the little handheld photovoltaics, and John weighs up the pros and cons of bringing Rodney in on something he could potentially be interested in, versus having to talk to him about this at all ever. Deciding that even with entire planets working shifts to produce them, all the handheld solar chargers in the world aren’t going to be enough to make a dent in Atlantis’ power usage, John lets himself off the hook. A short time later, so does the storekeeper - solar panels are manufactured elsewhere and he’s incorporated them into his own design. 

What Gwillum is really excited about is the opportunities for the development of, uh, _aids to virtual companionship_ afforded by networked remote communications. _Tele-_ dildonics. 

“So what you’re saying is, if we’ve got a functioning network, you can hook us up?” offers John, and oh god, what is his mouth even _thinking?_

Ronon just looks at him and gives him a barely perceptible shake of his head.

“I… uh… Just the kind of thing we say back home, to lighten the uh… mood. You know. Because of the…” John’s hand twitches in a half-formed gesture before his brain kicks in and he stops. He wonders if it’s possible to die of shame alone. Gwillum is gracious enough. 

“Oh, pet, how funny!” he tells John in a sweet, singsong accent, looking up from under his brows and smiling. “Let us know if you have any more where that came from, we’ve almost exhausted them.”

John realises the discussion is drawing to its inevitable conclusion and begins to panic. He’s not thought ahead so far, but It would be polite, of course, to conclude proceedings with a purchase; they don’t have a way to pay for information but there’s such a thing as reciprocating and he can feel his eyes start to widen as he looks towards the end of the conversation and can’t see any way to wrap this up without compromising his career, his reputation or his dignity. The first two he considers genuinely important to the continued success of the Atlantis mission, although he suspects it’s loss of the latter that’s causing his heart to flutter and demand a way out, now please.

Ronon’s clearly also thought ahead since he’s taciturn as always but John can FEEL him smirking on the inside, even if it’s the merest twinkle in his eyes from the outside. Just as John reaches peak wishing himself dead and is about to tell himself to man up, Ronon elbows him (ow) and says “I got this one,” and John says, "I’ll just, uh,” tips his head towards the door, and thanks the proprietor before making the most dignified tactical retreat he can manage whilst blushing to the tips of his ears. 

“Come see us again, mush!” calls the shopkeeper as he leaves.

 _Friggin’_ Larrin.

===

Outside, John leans his head against the warm stone wall, allows himself a moment to close his eyes and breathe. The buildings here are built of soft blocks of limestone, weathered gently to a grey and yellow hue. He’s going to have grit in his hair.

Okay, so the thing is, the thing is - John’s not a prude. No, Sir. He’s been in the U.S. armed forces all his adult life, he’s heard everything at least twice, he’s seen things and believe it, there are no depths to which soldiers, seamen and airmen won’t sink in a pinch. 

Yes, fine, he just smirked when he thought the word seamen.

John’s had excruciating introductions to various theatres of war - the obligatory sex-ed talk from a sergeant to a room of awkward young men and women showing photographs of the effects of the truly spectacular range of STDs soldiers and airmen might conceivably expect to encounter, were proper precautions not taken. About those precautions and where they might be procured and the social and diplomatic implications of sex in a war zone. Working with one joint force, a British sergeant had memorably closed his laptop, dusted off his hands, winced theatrically and concluded “basically, lads: have a wank”. John had mostly, over the years, taken this advice to heart. Or, well, hand. By now John’s a master at not touching things he shouldn’t touch - apart from that one most memorable time which landed him on a one way trip to an alien planet in a distant galaxy with the responsibility for keeping everyone around him alive. 

Six years, a handful of one night stands and several dozen near death experiences later, one apparently indelible but hopeless crush on his best friend, his record is now fair to middling. He hopes Rodney’s not pissed when he finds out about the little solar chargers. But there’s no way he’s accompanying Rodney into that shop with intent.

Uncomfortable prickles start between John’s shoulder blades and then move on to other places and, welp, no way is he going to adjust himself in the middle of the street, no way. We’re all cool here. Cool cool cool. Nothing to see. Fine, calm, totally okay… Which is when he hears the rest of his team - well, Rodney - returning up the street, and opens his eyes to see them both, Teyla nodding and smiling at his side.

If anyone notices his flushed cheeks, well it’s a warm day. And besides, if historical evidence can be relied on, Rodney’s not going to notice. He greets them with a “Hey, kids, how was your shopping?”

“Oh lovely, a beautiful day for a lesson in futility.” Rodney’s working up to a nice mid-level rant “You know me, when it comes to Ancient tech every day is Christmas Eve, but that ZPM shaped package almost always turns out to be bath salts, and this time it wasn’t even the equivalent of s _ocks_ , once my Aunt bought Jeannie and I matching…” 

John lets him run on and smiles fondly at Teyla, who’s carrying shopping and rolling her eyes, and just lets Rodney’s response wash over him. It’s almost soothing, he thinks. 

Rodney reaches up absently and dusts off the back of John’s hair.

…which is when Ronon swaggers out of the shop to join them, twirling a cloth bag. “I got your six, Sheppard," he says, and _leers_ and John’s going to die, right there in the street, no explosions or Genii or Wraith necessary, not even at all. 

===

They head back to the gate as the sun sinks towards the horizon. He takes point, with Rodney bitching about pollen behind him, and is grateful no one can see his face when he hears the bass rumble of Ronon’s voice - presumably telling tales on his prudish weirdo earthling team leader - and Teyla’s ringing laughter. John’s surprised, since the Athosians are all about the euphemisms, but by the sound of it Teyla seems unflustered by the whole thing. Then again, unflustered is pretty much her default setting.

He risks a look over his shoulder just as Ronon loosens the mouth of the drawstring bag and tips it so Teyla can peer in without breaking step. Teyla gives Ronon the eyebrow with a look John can only interpret as ‘amused and impressed’ and John can’t stand any more of the horror, so he brings his gaze firmly forward and focuses on the path through the fields in the dusk which the summer has all coming up hay and bolting weeds.

“What? What?” asks Rodney. He’s pestering Ronon, who’s not having any of it.

“Get Sheppard to explain it to you,” says Ronon, snatching back the bag and geez but he’s _evil_. Why is every native of the Pegasus Galaxy messing with his head today? John can hear McKay crashing up behind him through the tall grass until he draws level and asks, “No really, Sheppard, but what? Seriously, what?”.

“Get Ronon to explain it to you,” he snipes, and glares, jerking his head back over his shoulder in a double barrelled attempt to convey maximum get lost. Rodney gripes for a few more minutes (“oh that’s mature”) until John growls at him and he retreats, huffing and a little hurt. Suck it up, McKay, he thinks and then has to rid his brain of the inevitable visual just from the word association. God, has today broken him for _all words?_ He’s feeling violent. Maybe he kicks some grass a little, maybe the ground’s a little uneven up this way. Who can say?

Ronon eventually takes pity on McKay, or possibly his intention is to take the teasing to a new level but either way John knows the exact moment he’s shown Rodney the contents of the bag even from twenty feet ahead, only John is surprised because instead of spluttering and shrieks of horror, McKay only says, “Oh. _That_ sort of electronic technology. Well why didn’t you SAY so?” in an aggrieved tone of voice, followed by, “Sheppard, you’re such a girl,” followed by, “Hey, nice! Solar charger!” and great. Apparently John’s the only one on the team who can’t be an adult about this and god what is in the BAG? He shifts his grip on his P90 and resolutely decides not to think about it. 

Instead, he drafts his mission report in his head focussing mostly on the intel, concludes it with, “Sp. Dex purchased item to foster goodwill.” Isn’t it a shame that the nature of the item in question won’t make it into his report. It’s probably futile to hope the rest of his team is as self-censoring. He can just imagine Ronon’s dictaphone drafted version now: _“Met the sex toy guy, got intel, left through the Ring of the Ancestors.”_ John’s not going to make a big deal out of it, if so. Gotta leave Woolsey _something_ to amuse himself with. 

He’s perhaps not making as much effort to pay attention as he ought to, a little distracted - okay, a lot distracted - so it’s as much his fault as anyone’s when a dozen guys and gals burst out from behind some haystacks and he and his team are engulfed in stunner fire. 

John doesn’t even have time to cuss.


End file.
